Trompe L'Oeil
by Gwinne
Summary: Takaba finds himself entangled in a web that not even Asami can help him out of.
1. Prologue

**A/N:** Hello! As noted in a previous work posted here, it has been a while since I've written fanfiction so please bear with me as I get into the hang of using sensei's characters again. Here is a story that I originally started back in 2005 (well before Facebook, Twitter, and the like - my, how quickly things have changed...) and decided to pick up again. Please keep in mind that when I originally plotted this out, it was back before the Hong Kong arc was published (I believe only the first volume had been released), but I've retrofitted it so I'm hoping it feels more recent.**  
**

As with an earlier posting of mine, I'd originally posted this prologue on LJ and on a private archive under a different pseudonym. I'd like to keep that pseudonym dormant, so if you were in the fandom back then and recall this, I'd greatly appreciate if it might still be kept that way.

Thanks, and happy reading! :)

Cheers,  
G.

(***)

**Trompe L'Oeil  
Prologue**

(***)**  
**

_Shanghai, China  
June 2, 20XX_

The air conditioning felt heavenly.

Takaba Akihito closed his eyes and savored the chilly breeze that danced over the hairs of his arm. He breathed in deeply, and let the cool, recycled air circulate in his lungs.

Reprieve. Blessed reprieve.

That was all he wanted, but at the moment, this was all he would get. No posh condo, no carefree friends, no prized camera, not even ... him.

Takaba opened his eyes and breathed out. His own mirrored reflection and that of his tepid coffee glared back at him from across the western-styled counter. How he had ended up in the cafe, he could hardly remember. The frantic beating of footsteps, the agonizing burn in his throat, the desperate glances over his shoulder, and the next thing he knew, he had found himself here. He had walked into the Americanized shop as calmly as he could, and had forced his rapid breathing and pounding heart to slow down by sheer willpower alone. Then, as casually as one would please, he had walked over to the counter, sat down on a stool, and ordered a cup of coffee he could ill afford.

What a waste that had been. He'd taken one sip of the bitter drink and hadn't touched it since.

Takaba slouched in his seat, hoping his hunched shoulders would hide what the dim lighting could not.

He was frightened.

Hell, he was scared shitless.

But he couldn't let anyone see that.

Thankfully, there were only a few patrons in the shop this time of day. Being situated so close to downtown, Takaba had a feeling that most of the business would come when work ended later that afternoon. And although the midday sun cast its hot rays through the front windows, it was all the café relied on for light at the moment, leaving Takaba sitting in the shadowed corner farthest from the front. All things considered, this was perhaps the best place to lay low until the appointed hour.

"Is this seat taken?"

Takaba nearly jumped off his perch when he heard the question. His mind registered that the words had been in Japanese, and instantly, his senses went on alert. However, his body had a different reaction, and refused to move.

"N-no," he answered shakily, watching in the mirror as the stranger sat down.

The new arrival appeared to be in his mid-thirties, clean-cut with neatly trimmed hair and gently angled eyes that passed him off as Chinese. With his dark suit and tie, he seemed to be just a typical office worker from the nearby business towers taking a leisurely afternoon break. The jittery man wondered if that was the case at all.

Takaba focused his eyes down to the counter and then took a sip of his lukewarm coffee. He concentrated on the bitterness the liquid left in his mouth, and tried to ignore the steadily increasing heartbeat that drummed away in his ears. He could feel his skin get clammy at the nearness of the stranger, and he nervously rubbed his palms on his jeans to wipe away some of the moisture.

So much for the wonders of air conditioning.

"I was reading the paper today about a man who walked into a crowded restaurant."

The young photographer looked back up to mirror at the man's statement, a mixture of surprise and fear on his face when he realized that he had been spoken to. At some point, the café's one waitress had brought a cup of coffee and placed it in front of the stranger. The man paused to dump a little sugar into the drink before meeting his neighbor's reflected eyes.

"In fact, I don't think it's very far from here."

There was the gentle clinking of silver on glass as the sugar was stirred into the steaming beverage.

"And it was one of those real, authentic Chinese restaurants where they serve all the little steamed dishes on trolleys." The stranger paused and put his spoon down. Cautiously, he brought the hot coffee to his lips and took a sip. He grimaced slightly at either the taste or the temperature, and carefully put the glass back down.

Takaba watched the mundane action in the mirror, muscles tensed. "So?" he prompted weakly.

"Well, this man walks in during the height of morning dim sum," the stranger continued, "and it's probably the busiest hour of the day, but he manages to find a table. He sits down and orders a pot of tea. Chinese tea, that is."

The mysterious man stopped and turned his head toward Takaba for a moment. "You know, the Chinese don't believe in tainting their tea with things like sugar and milk? It takes away from truly tasting the tea."

Takaba nodded, not because he was in accordance with the spoken words, but because he was merely keeping up the pretense of a normal conversation.

The stranger repositioned himself, and stared forward once more. "This man, he pours himself a cup of tea, takes out his newspaper, and starts to read, right in the middle of one of the loudest and busiest establishments in Shanghai."

The man halted again to take a sip of his drink, this time without the accompanying grimace. And again, he returned to staring straight into the mirror, meeting Takaba's eyes before continuing.

"After about half an hour of reading and drinking, he stands up, maneuvers through the restaurant, shoots a guy in the back of the head as he goes by a table, and walks right out the front door. No one even realizes that a man has been killed until the dead guy falls face first into his food."

Takaba wanted to look away, wanted to drag his eyes from the deadly calm of the other man's gaze and walk out of the shop. But his body refused to respond, and all he could do was try to swallow away the dryness in his mouth.

"And you know what the oddest thing is? Not one person, not a single soul out of a restaurant full of a hundred plus people could describe what the assassin looked like." A humorless smile formed on the man's lips and he let out an empty chuckle. "No one knows. No one cares."

Takaba's fists unconsciously clenched on the countertop, and he finally managed to pull his eyes away. Images flittered through his head ... of desperate screams, of helpless actions, and of fatal decisions. The man was right. In today's world of materialism and self, no one would truly care.

"So you tell me, Takaba-san, what are the chances that in a city of thirteen million, at least one person would recognize me if I killed you?"

By now, Takaba knew he had to get out. But how?

His own fear had paralyzed him, and he probably wouldn't get very far before he was caught ... especially if the other man was a professional.

_/ "Wherever you run, wherever you are, I will find you, Takaba. You belong to me. Remember that." /_

Asami's haunting words echoed through his head, and for a brief, blinding moment, he was assaulted with a longing so great that he almost cried out. What he wouldn't give to have that overbearing man chasing him instead. But that wasn't the case now, and he would have to live with it.

He quickly blinked away the prickling he felt in his eyes and gulped down the lump that had formed in his throat.

"What do you want?" the frightened photographer forced out, voice tight and slightly high-pitched. He glanced over to the other man.

The stranger's expression remained impassive and calm. "You know what I want ... what I'm here for ... "

"I ... "

Just then, the diligent waitress walked between the two of them, coffee pot in hand, and silently topped off the Japanese man's nearly full cup. Takaba looked up at the bored expression of the young girl's face and placed a stilling hand on her outstretched arm. She turned to him inquiringly, eyebrows up, expecting another order.

But Takaba didn't give one. Instead, he gave her arm a firm push, and stayed still long enough to watch the hot coffee from the pot spill all over the would-be assassin.

And then, he was off.

Legs pumping and arms swinging, he darted through the front entrance and out into the busy city streets. The humid afternoon heat hit him with the force of a semi-truck, and he suffered a moment of disorientation before he regained his bearings and continued running.

He knew he was on the east side of the Huangpu River, weaving in and out of downtown pedestrian traffic. Across the river, he could see the tall spire of the Oriental Pearl TV Tower, but it wasn't time yet; he couldn't go to the meeting spot now and lead them to ...

Takaba mentally shook his head.

No, if he was going to be caught, it was better that it be only one of them, not both.

And so, he continued to run, every fiber of his being straining and constricting with extreme effort. But he kept going, knowing that if he stopped, it would be the end of him.

Yet through the overwhelming chitter-chatter of the populous city, he heard himself asking how things had come to this, and who he could turn to now to get him out of the fucked-up web he'd somehow got caught in.

The prickling returned to his eyes, and that lump re-lodged itself in his throat again. Who could he turn to indeed?

Not him ... not Asami.

Takaba felt his vision blur, making the already streaking surroundings even more unrecognizable.

Not Asami, he reminded himself. He couldn't turn to Asami because Asami wasn't there anymore. Because Asami was dead now ... and he had been the one responsible.

End Prologue


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N**: Wow, it has been so long since I've written a new fanfiction chapter. Here's hoping I'm still okay at it. When this story was first conceived and plotted seven years ago, I had it originally taking place on a cruise ship. But alas, the whole Hong Kong arc has happened since then and I didn't want to retread old territory, so I've re-plotted the whole story. Hope you enjoy! Happy reading!

- G._  
_

(***)_  
_

**Trompe L'Oeil**  
**Chapter 1**

(***)

_Tokyo, Japan_  
_May 25, 20XX_

"Will this be in tomorrow's edition?"

Takaba Akihito clenched his jaw and nodded. The middle aged woman asking likely wasn't aware that with his DSLR camera and the wonders of modern technology, her picture could be posted on his paper's online edition within minutes. But he said nothing, opting to let her believe that the print medium was still the best way to be seen. The accommodating smile he gave her strained his facial muscles as he quickly snapped a picture of the sequin-gowned socialite. The smile on her meticulously lined lips was probably not as forced as his, but she had undoubtedly been practicing at these events for all of her forty-ish pampered years.

The young photographer said a polite thank-you and walked away. He sighed inwardly, unconsciously pulling at his ill-fitting clothes. He could easily be in his regular get-up instead of this formal attire. Instead, his collar was too tight, his jacket was too restricting, and his borrowed shoes were pinching. All in all, he felt like a miserable, overdressed penguin on the verge of a homicidal rampage.

For what seemed like the hundredth time that evening, he wondered how he had gotten pulled into such a fate.

His conscience.

Well, his conscience, and the sneaky maneuverings of a guilt-tripping editor to be exact.

The previous day, his editor had called him into the office with a desperate look on his face. The air of defeat that had surrounded the older man had almost caused a wave of concern to wash through Takaba. Almost, that was, until said man asked him to cover a sick colleague who was working a fancy affair at some posh hotel. The abrupt refusal had left Takaba's mouth before he had had a chance to censor it. He was a photojournalist, not a fluffly society photographer! He ferreted out corruption and exposed criminals; he did _not_ mingle with wealthy ladies and gentlemen.

That was until his manipulative beast of an editor looked at him with such a pleading expression that Takaba had felt like an ogre for refusing.

"Please, Takaba, I need you to do this. The _paper_ needs you. Think of all the slack I've given you all these months, letting you chase your fanciful conspiracies and all that. This is but one small thing you can do to repay me..."

And just like that, he had been roped in, defeated by his own guilt and a silly sense of obligation.

Takaba mentally cursed his bad luck and his soft-heartedness. If only he could be as cold and callous as that bastard he called a lover. No, he reined his thoughts in at that point. He shouldn't wish for that. As undeniably alluring as Asami was, Takaba drew the line at emulating the man. The conceit and ego on him was what made him so despicable. And Takaba never wanted to be that.

But the sparkling jewels and flashing cufflinks that passed by him in a dizzying whirl were close to making him want to quit outright. Still, images of his editor's face and the threat of losing the freedom he already had in his job reminded Takaba that he couldn't leave. He ground his teeth together with resigned determination and skirted his way to the full service bar at the other end of the room.

He may have been trapped here in this glitzy prison, but that certainly didn't mean he couldn't take advantage of its perks. As he sidled up to the polished counter, he leaned his upper torso heavily against the edge. He tried to hide his suffering behind a façade of boredom while he waited for the bartender to finish with another order.

His efforts seemed to have been in vain though, for when the man behind the bar turned to serve him, he received a sympathetic look. "What can I get you, sir?"

For a fleeting moment, Takaba considered ordering something hard and strong - he deserved as much for attending this forsaken event - but the fact that he was still on the job held his compulsion in check. Besides, according to his friends, he made a very bad - or a very amusing, depending on how one looked at it - drunk. Not very professional at all.

"Just water," Takaba finally said as he straightened somewhat and rested his camera on the bar.

"Right away." The bartender efficiently filled a glass, his movements quick and sure.

At least one of them hadn't minded working tonight, the photographer mused. Still, he would've liked to know the other man's secret for looking so at ease in his uniform.

Once his drink had been placed before him, Takaba gave the bartender a grateful nod, and took a fortifying gulp. The startling chill of the water trickled into the pit of his stomach and surprisingly, he felt somewhat refreshed by it. Taking one more cleansing breath, he put his glass down, picked up his camera, and turned to face the decadence of the room.

From the stylized Doric columns that guarded the entrance to the gold gilt mirrors that lined the opposite side of the room, over two hundred people milled about and chatted, all in an effort to see and be seen. That, combined with the elaborate chandelier and five-piece orchestra playing softly from the side dais, made it hard to believe that this was in fact one big business affair.

Yes, Takaba had managed to do a little homework before arriving here tonight. The Synergy Corporation was the commercial brainchild of an international collaboration of investors. With the disastrous stop to nuclear energy generation in Japan, it hadn't taken long before companies peddling alternative energy sources came courting. Granted, the profit to be made was lucrative, and any CEO would be a fool for not seizing such a venture.

And did SynCorp ever know how to woo a country! In Takaba's experience, whenever such financial endeavors were involved, fancy affairs like this typically followed. Even he had to concede that it was an impressive maneuver.

'Which is why you should enjoy every minute,' an overly optimistic voice pointed out inside his head. How often would he even get admittance into such a lavish hotel, let alone this type of party? He brought his camera up to eye level and began to search for a subject through his viewfinder.

Click.

It was true. When in his life would he ever do this again?

Click.

The enticing twinkle of jewels, the sensual sashay of silk, the delicate clinking of crystal ... these all belonged to a glittering world that was as attainable to him as ... well, he might as well have asked for the moon.

Fake smiles, veiled motives, deceptive flattery - these weren't his people. This wasn't even his universe. This was ...

Cli-

His.

Takaba lowered his lens, a strange heat crawling like a meandering insect down the length of his spine. His grip tightened on the metal and plastic of his camera, and his breath caught in his throat. He felt a sudden rush of blood as it flooded his every fiber with liquid heat. He leaned back against the bar again for support.

The world could have easily reached Judgment Day and he would still remain clueless as to how just the very sight of Asami Ryuichi caused his body to react the way it did. Not that he'd ever let the man know that. The arrogant beast had enough sexual mystique to put Casanova to shame, and he knew it. Takaba didn't need to confirm that fact with him, and stroke his ego even more.

Asami stood near the other end of the room, the tailored fit of his haut couture suit and the confident posture of his imposing figure leaving no doubt that he was someone who belonged here. He stood taller than those around him, the slight downward angle of his head as he listened to the surrounding conversation in no way subverting his air of authority. But despite the perceived attentiveness to his companions, Takaba knew Asami's attentions were focused elsewhere. That intense gaze was discreetly fixed on him.

The photographer forced himself to swallow, all of a sudden wishing he had ordered something more fortifying from the bar when he'd had the chance. He stared back, of course. He stared back because that was all he was capable of doing. Asami's dark eyes had him pinned on the spot - piercing, predatory, dangerous - and Takaba had never felt more like a trapped specimen being analyzed ... and admired.

He felt his cheeks flush. Too much time had passed since he'd felt like this. They had been two ships passing each other in the dark the last three weeks, their erratic schedules having caused them to live like two strangers sharing a condo. And as loathed as Takaba was to admit it, he was secretly missing his domineering lover. He missed this feeling, this feeling of been trapped and powerless, and at the same time, of acting without inhibitions and wielding limitless power. All that bastard needed was to place those intoxicating whiskey eyes on him, and he remembered the sweat-soaked skin and hitched breaths of their last volatile encounter.

His camera creaked, the stress of his clenching fingers causing the polymer to protest. It wasn't much of a sound, but that and the sudden tightness of his pants were enough to snap him back to reality. The drone of chattering voices and the buzz of the orchestra filtered through his haze, reminding him that nearly a whole ballroom stood between himself and that man. That was something he should have been grateful for - especially since he was _working_ - and yet, strangely enough, he felt a small seed of disappointment flower in his chest.

By sheer force of will, he focused his mind back on the task at hand and pulled his attention away from Asami. Slowly, he raised his camera and centered his shot.

Click.

The sound cemented the purpose of his presence back to the here and now. He was there to take pictures of glamorous socialites tonight, not criminal bastards with lurid intent in their eyes. He refused to be sidetracked. So thinking, Takaba pushed off from the bar, his back straightening as he infused himself with a little arrogance of his own. It wasn't until he was taking a picture of the orchestra that he realized he was still shaking from his silent encounter with Asami.

(***)

Having seen the things he'd seen during the course of his life, there were not many things that could surprise him. Therefore, when the tell-tale glare of a camera lens had caught his attention, he hadn't been surprised to find Takaba's familiar face behind it. Asami Ryuichi brought the champagne flute in his hand up for a sip, the bubbly drink a marked contrast to his preferred beverages. But it was an affected gesture, one that hid the slight upward tilt of a corner of his lips as he watched his errant young pet take one more picture before dismissing him like an insignificant speck of dust.

Asami relished the anticipation of catching the boy after his impertinent action just now. Takaba would pay for that, he promised himself silently as he turned his attention back to his companions.

"It's the perfect situation, isn't it?" came Kinoshita's excited voice. "And definitely worth your investment, don't you think, Asami-san?"

Kinoshita Eiichi was not a person with whom he would typically do business. For one, the man was legitimate. From the top of his balding head to the tips of his patent leather shoes, the older businessman with the wire-framed glasses and expressive face was as honest as they came. But the man had approached him thinking he was just as ethical in his dealings, and had pitched the investment opportunity quite convincingly. If Kinoshita only knew the truth about him, about some of the other 'ventures' he'd undertaken, Asami was fairly certain that what was left of the aging man's hair would turn white from shock.

In the end though, he had agreed, not only because it lent him an air of legitimacy, but also because a few not-so-legitimate players had entered the game. Whoever controlled the energy crisis right now had the chance of controlling the entire country, and who was he to deny himself a grab at some extra power. Besides, he had never been one to turn away from a little profitable fun.

"Yes, of course." His obligatory reply was spoken in a bland tone, and truth be told, he was not one to suffer such boredom lightly ... especially when he had something - or rather, someone - to alleviate it so near at hand.

His mind drifted to the quick camera flash that appeared beside the orchestra. A subtle glint of private amusement entered his eyes.

Alleviate indeed.

(***)

"Fucking Asami," Takaba muttered under his breath as he made his way into the hotel's business center. As if working in that crowded ballroom wasn't enough, having the presence of his crime lord lover around as he did his job was pushing his hypersensitive nerves into overdrive. The man probably did it on purpose, causing him to get all hot under his too-tight collar - not to mention very aroused - just because he could. Or perhaps it was this lengthy stretch of abstinence. Several weeks had passed since he'd gotten properly laid, and thanks to Asami, Takaba was beginning to realize he was actually quite a sexual creature.

"Again, all his fault," the photographer accused as he set down his camera case and started browsing through the photos on his memory card. An evil little grin flitted across his lips as he found the few he'd snapped of the despicable man. These, he wanted to keep. Asami never liked having his picture taken, and knowing the bastard the way Takaba did, he'd bet next month's wages that those images would suddenly 'disappear' before the night was out.

Reaching into his camera bag, he pulled out his card reader and his cell phone. Tethering one to the other, he made short work of uploading Asami's pictures to his private online storage site.

'Let's see him get them now,' Takaba thought smugly.

Feeling triumphant - however trivial and one-sided the battle had been - he quickly packed away his equipment, and moved to open the door.

"No, I refuse to do that! What you're asking me to do is illegal!"

Takaba paused, the knob still in his hand and the door only slightly ajar. The heated words had been spoken not too far outside the entrance of the room, close enough that he could hear everything without even straining.

"It's not illegal if we don't get caught."

The photographer was intrigued. Perhaps tonight wouldn't be such a waste after all. Very slowly, he eased the door closed, leaving enough of a crack to still make out the rest of the argument.

"But what you're asking, I can't do. The shares, the investors ... I won't be part of it! I'm not that kind of person."

Insider trading? Takaba's heart began to beat at a higher cadence. Talk about being in the right place at the right time! He had to resist licking his lips at the veritable scandal that had been practically handed to him.

"Not that kind of person? Really, Kinoshita? You think I don't know that you have someone waiting for you in your hotel room tonight who is not your wife? Don't give me your high and mighty routine when I know you're anything but!"

There was such a long silence after that statement that Takaba thought the men had left.

And then, "Go to hell, Mori."

A slow, dry chuckle answered the menace-laden comment. "I gladly accept the invitation," Mori retorted with dark humor. "After all, you'll need some company, won't you? You, a senior VP, consorting with strangers in your hotel room. Sure doesn't look good right before SynCorp goes public, does it?"

"I don't take kindly to blackmail," came Kinoshita's gruff reply.

"Too late for that now, isn't it?"

Takaba could almost see the sneer that accompanied that rhetorical question. He waited for more, his fingers unconsciously tapping on his camera, eager for action. But nothing was forthcoming. With great care, he opened the door a few inches and peered out.

Nothing. The space outside was deserted.

Damn!

Equipment in hand, Takaba moved swiftly. He headed straight for the front desk, and gave the girl behind the counter a sob story about a ruthless boss and missing the chance to take a picture of SynCorp's VP for his paper. With some award-winning acting and a dash of his own personal charm, he managed to get Kinoshita's room number from the girl. Throwing her a disarming smile, he thanked her and headed for the elevators. He noticed - with healthy dose of male pride - that her expression softened at his gesture, but he tempered down his conquest by focusing on his sudden news story.

The elevator took an eternity to get to the ground floor. When the blessed _ding_ finally sounded, Takaba almost jumped for joy. But as he made his way through the opening doors, he felt himself being shoved in from behind.

Surprised, he turned to unleash some biting words at the offender, and stopped short. "Ki-Kirishima..."

Asami's assistant nodded a quick greeting as the elevator doors slid closed. "Takaba," he said in his low, business-like tone. "Your presence has been requested."

"Requested, huh?" Too late, the photographer realized that Kirishima had already pressed the floor number that they were to get off on. And unfortunately, it was four floors lower than where he wanted to go.

He cursed Asami again. Why was the man never around when he was needed, but always interfered when he wasn't? Sometimes, having the head of a criminal syndicate for a lover was highly overrated.

"Would it serve any purpose if I put up my token act of resistance, Kirishima?" Takaba sighed, slowly coming to terms with his exposé slipping away and hating Asami all the more for it.

"I would prefer if you didn't," came Kirishima's matter-of-fact reply. "It would make my job much easier tonight if I didn't have to chase after you." The overhead fluorescent lights reflected off his glasses as he turned his head to look at the floor numbers changing on the display panel. "I just had this suit dry-cleaned."

The photographer suppressed a smile at the assistant's deadpan remark. Out of deference for the man, Takaba didn't make any more protests or try to run away. But his magnanimous attitude quickly evaporated when he found himself being ushered down a corridor.

"Seriously, Kirishima? Does he really need to -"

The click of the key card on the lock shut him up, an ominous sound that Takaba knew didn't bode well for him. With a light push from the older man, he stumbled a few steps into the room. He felt the door close behind him, and he paused for a few seconds as his eyes accustomed themselves to the dimly lit space. When he could finally decipher the outlines of the furniture, his gaze easily sought out the dark figure sitting casually in an armchair on the far side of the suite.

Asami, all coiled grace and sinister intentions.

Takaba hated the way his traitorous body automatically responded to the other man very presence ... especially when he needed to be somewhere else. Maybe he could convince the bastard to let him go this one time. Just this once …

And then, Asami spoke, that silky rumble gliding along his skin and causing the hairs on his arms to stand on end. "Good evening, Takaba."

Shit.

End Chapter 1


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N**: Hello! I thought I would post this before I head off on vacation. Heading down to Anaheim for a half-marathon, and then off to Machu Pichu! Strike another item off my bucket list! (Hiking the Incan Trail, that is, not the race). :)

Anyways, in deference to this site's rating policies, I've toned down and edited out the R-rated parts of this. Hope that's alright. Other than that, please enjoy!

Cheers,  
G.

(***)

Trompe L'Oeil  
Chapter 2

(***)

Takaba knew he was screwed the moment Asami opened his mouth. And even though he could sense that familiar fire begin to spread from his groin, he still had to try.

"Look, Asami, I don't have time for this," he said, his voice sounding remarkably calm in his own ears. He whipped around and headed for the door.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Takaba froze at the sound of the subdued baritone, his hand gripping the door handle. "Suoh and Kirishima are right outside, aren't they?"

The photographer took the ensuing silence as an affirmative. No doubt those loyal employees had their guns on them and had been given permission to use them - within reason, of course. He let out a tired breath and ran an anxious hand through his hair. He hated these tumultuous emotions that warred for domination within him. At times, everything seemed clear. He had focus; he had a job he loved and that was that. But other times, that focus wavered and he felt like he could easily give it all up in a heartbeat for one man. And that scared him more than anything he could ever understand.

Swallowing, and trying to mask the uncertainty that bounced around in his head, Takaba turned and walked into the lavish suite. "Seriously," he grumbled, "I'm not your mistress or something like that. I have my own life. I should be able to go where I want, and do what I want. I don't make booty calls just because you 'requested' it."

"Can't I?" Asami rose, his very silhouette imposing. "Wherever you run, wherever you are, I will find you, Takaba. You belong to me. Remember that."

Takaba paused, his breath caught and his pulse beating a loud staccato in his ears. "Bastard," he managed to say.

The yakuza leader moved closer, each step slow and measured. The younger man caught a whiff of his companion's scent - an enticing scent of aftershave, cigarette smoke, and something uniquely Asami - and he fought hard not to lean into that comforting smell. "I have things to do," he stated, more so to convince himself than the other man. "I have a job to finish."

From this distance, Takaba could make out the habitual smirk that made its way onto his lover's face at his declaration. "You call what you were doing down there a job?"

The defensive attitude came by reflex to the photographer. "I'm just doing my editor a favor."

A low chuckle filled the room as Asami covered the distance between them. The nearness caused Takaba to back up unconsciously, so much so that his back hit the wall before he knew it. The room was suddenly very, very small. This close, he couldn't see, couldn't breathe, couldn't think of anything but his lover.

"A favor?" The camera he had in his hand disappeared before he could stop it. With those long, nimble fingers, the imposing yakuza leader turned the thing on. "You call taking pictures of me a favor?"

Takaba couldn't stop a smirk of his own from appearing on his lips. "No, that's just for me," he said with a dash of defiance.

A dark eyebrow rose. "For you?" Asami repeated, a hint of wry humor in his voice. "It's just insolence if you ask me."

By now, the older man had found the images he had been look for, and Takaba's brief show of rebellion disappeared when he saw the 'Delete' menu being pulled up on his camera. "Hey, don't -"

"And I've yet to decide how to repay you for that insolence."

A resounding _beep_ confirmed the final deletion of the picture. Takaba could feel his hackles rise at the interference. Never mind that he'd planned a contingency for this. Just the fact that the arrogant bastard could tamper with his livelihood without any consideration for him made his blood boil. "Asami, you asshole! I - "

A flash of warning in the older man's eyes stilled the protesting photographer. The distant city lights that had penetrated through the panelled windows danced across the hard planes of that enigmatic face, playing with undue care over hard features that rarely ever softened. But Takaba knew better. He'd seen that mouth gasp in unabashed release. He'd seen those brows crease with undue concentration. And he'd seen those golden eyes, those fathomless golden eyes flare with unbridled passion and sometimes ... sometimes with something more.

Like now.

His breathing had become shallow and fast, his body yearning for something - anything - to break the tension between them. And he had always been an impulsive person. Without any more hesitation, he launched himself forward, capturing his lover's mouth in a flurry of need and clumsiness.

Asami staggered slightly at the sudden onslaught, but he adjusted quickly as his arms came up to steady the both of them. Takaba heard the dull thud of the camera falling onto the plush carpet, but it sounded so far away, so distant and inconsequential to what was happening right now.

Three weeks. Three weeks without this, without the intoxicating taste of this dominating man, and Takaba couldn't seem to get enough. He soaked in as much as he could, tongue darting out at first to explore, and then, gaining confidence, to devour. And Asami countered him easily, meeting him bite for bite, thrust for thrust.

A low satisfied groan filled the room and belatedly, Takaba realized that it was his own. His hands moved up clumsily, working frantically by feel to pull the fancy tux off his lover. Too many layers separated them, and he desperately wanted the other man's skin against his own.

With an impatient grunt, Asami broke their kiss and stopped his fingers from their task. Takaba almost cried out at the loss of contact, but he was somewhat mollified when the older man easily finished what he had started. Having made short work of his own shirt, Asami moved to his lover's.

A small, lopsided smile tugged on the yakuza leader's mouth. "That's my tie," he whispered in a passion-infused voice.

"You weren't using it." Takaba's words were spoken hoarsely.

That smile became slightly more sinister. "I am now."

In one deft motion, the tie that had been choking the photographer all night disappeared. And just as quickly, the smooth silk was tied tightly around his wrists. By habit, Takaba started to fight back at the callous action, and then at being undressed without blinking an eye, but he finally noticed the wicked tilt of his lover's lips and held back. He looped his arms around the taller man's neck to bring him closer, but Asami would not have any of it.

As the yakuza leader yanked his immobilized arms above his head, Takaba understood that without a shadow of a doubt that he was definitely not the aggressor tonight. Asami was, and to that, the young photographer gave in, allowing his lover to re-capture his mouth and letting himself be plundered.

But the older man wouldn't settle for that small victory. He wanted complete surrender, just as he always did. Without mercy, he moved on, nipping forcefully along the vulnerable column of the bound man's throat, travelling the distance down until his mouth clamped around a hardened nipple.

"Fuck, Asami," Takaba moaned. He wanted to bring his arms down, wanted to run his fingers through his lover's immaculate hair, wanted to pull him closer. But he couldn't. "Do it already!"

The patterns that skillful tongue made nearly pushed him over the edge. But when he felt his pants falling to his ankles and his painful erection being massaged, he was lost. Completely, and utterly lost. The world had become a haze. Nothing existed but what was here and now. The sweat-soaked skin, the heated breaths, the very scent of sex … they all played on his hypersensitive nerves, driving him into a sweet madness from which he never wanted to return.

(***)

"Did you book this room just now because you saw me downstairs?"

After what had been an intense and tiring bout of sex, lucidity was slowly returning to Takaba's muddled mind. They had somehow ended up on one of the sofa's in the spacious suite. And now that the young photographer was becoming more aware of his surroundings, he was taken aback that one whole wall of the suite was made of panelled windows overlooking the cityscape of Tokyo's night lights. The view was simply breathtaking.

"Perhaps."

Takaba rolled his eyes at the elusive answer, and shifted against the arm that had been draped around his shoulders. "Only you could book a luxury suite at a five-star hotel whenever you wanted."

The older man didn't respond, but the sated photographer did notice the slow circles being traced unconsciously on his upper bicep by his lover's finger. His lips quirked up into a small, knowing grin. "You missed me, didn't you?"

Again, no reply.

Feeling a little superior, Takaba settled more comfortable into the soft couch. "Three weeks _is_ a long stretch to go without sex," he said innocently.

"Are you implying that _you_ missed me then?"

A quiet chuckle escaped the younger man's throat. "No," he denied lightly. "I could've easily found someone else."

A sound of disbelief came from the yakuza leader.

"What? You think I wouldn't?" Takaba turned his head to get a better look at his companion. Why, oh, why did he always have this compulsion to bait the lion? "I could, you know."

"He'd be dead within minutes," was the curt answer. "Besides," Asami continued, "Would this hypothetical partner be able to do this?" Without warning, that hand that had been doodling on his arm moved and skirted over the tender skin of his inner thigh. Already, Takaba could feel the stirring of his cock, and he inhaled deeply. "I barely even touch you, and you're readying yourself for me again, my Akihito." The despicable man had lowered his head and whispered the observation near the photographer's ear, the sofly spoken words causing a shiver to run down his spine.

"Asshole," Takaba ground out through clenched teeth. "I-It's not my fault you're out of town all the time."

Those expert fingers flittered around his scrotum, and the younger man began to lose his grip on coherent thought.

"That's business."

"Okay, business," the photographer repeated mindlessly, closing his eyes and giving into the small, pleasurable spasms that were beginning to grip his lower half.

But something nagged at him, somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind. Something sane, something urgent… Business.

His eyes flew open. "Damn it," he hissed as he shot off the sofa, head frantically whipping side to side trying to locate his camera and discarded clothing.

"Takaba," Asami said in a warning tone.

But the photographer ignored it, as he was wont to do at times when Asami tried to control him. He was too busy hopping into his pants and check his camera for any damage. He felt those golden eyes trained on him, but he was more focused on getting out of the suite and tracking down his scoop than appeasing his lover at the moment. Asami would be around later. This, this potential scandal could disappear within minutes. Disheveled and arms full of is equipment and clothes, he quickly darted toward the exit without a second glance back.

(***)

'The elevator wasn't moving fast enough', Takaba thought as he buttoned up his shirt and leaned against the back wall. And to aggravate him further, he realized that in his clumsy exit, he'd forgotten his jacket in the suite. He tilted his head back and let out a tired sigh. How was it that when he was around Asami, all his priorities seemed to shift? Even now, a part of him wanted to go back down there into that room and finish off what they had started, despite what his rational mind was telling him. It went against all logic, even his standard of logic.

Luckily, the elevator doors slid open before he could dwell on it any longer. Resolved now, he adjusted his equipment bag across his shoulder, held tight to his camera, and strode into the corridor. Finding Kinoshita's room number wasn't easy. After numerous twists and turns, Takaba was getting a little disoriented himself, but he eventually found it.

As he approached the door, it occurred to him that he hadn't really formulated a plan of what to do when he arrived. Knock on the door and ask the man to say 'cheese'? Pretty unlikely. But his concerns disappeared and were replaced with something else when he was close enough to see that the room door had not been securely closed. An apprehensive fluttering in his stomach warned him that something wasn't right, that a room being used for an illicit affair wouldn't be so carelessly handled.

Stopping right before the entrance, he debated knocking. Normally, he would be stealthy, sneaking about without a sound, but that sense of uneasiness sat heavily in his gut, and he wasn't one to dismiss it so quickly. Turning his head to listen carefully, he gave the door a soft tap.

Nothing.

As loud as the warning bells were ringing in his head, his curiosity was also piqued. A surge of adrenaline coursed through his muscles, tensing them and honing them for whatever he might encounter should he enter the room.

And enter he did.

With a deep breath and a pounding heart, he pushed on the door and stepped in quietly. The suite was dark, its layout almost identical to the one that Asami had used. The scattering of Tokyo's lights blazed in the distance, illuminating each object in the suite with almost snobbish discretion. Takaba took a few steps in, and when he couldn't detect anything amiss in the space, he moved cautiously into one of the adjoining bedrooms. If he was going to walk in on any sordid affair, he was more likely to find something there. Gingerly, he eased the bedroom door open and slipped in.

The first thing that hit him was the smell - a metallic tang that couldn't be mistaken for anything else but blood. Having been near Asami as long as he had, and having witnessed everything he had, Takaba had thought that he would've gotten used to the sight of a dead man. But he hadn't. The casually sprawled body on the bed with its wide opened eyes caused bile to rise in his throat and an overwhelming urge to look away. On an academic level, he guessed that such a reaction was a good thing, that all his time with his criminal, cold-blooded lover hadn't completely stripped him of his humanity.

Tentatively, he walked around the bed. The rational voice in his head told him to run for help. But his journalist's instincts goaded him to investigate further. The gunshot wounds were what he saw first, multiple ones liberally placed through the chest and abdomen. Yet, from the shocked expression that was now forever frozen on Kinoshita's face, it was the bullet in his forehead he had probably seen too late that had ultimately killed him.

Takaba thought about taking a picture of the scene. As the first on site, he had the opportunity to take exclusive images of an undisturbed murder. But his sense of human decency prevented him from doing so outright. He could document evidence of corruption and scandals without any issues, but it just didn't seem right to benefit from someone else's death.

He turned to leave the room, trying not to touch anything for fear of contaminating them before the investigators got to it. But he didn't get very far before he felt a sharp prick in his neck. Instantly, the entire room began to spin, a whirl of light and dark, bloodstained sheets and shadowed crevices. And then, everything went blank.

(***)

Asami took a sip of his drink and turned away from the window. He looked over at Kirishima, expecting the ever-efficient secretary to report without being asked.

"There's been a murder in the hotel, Asami-sama," the man said succinctly.

That explained the commotion he saw down at street level. The tiny flashes of police lights and hustle of bodies appeared like a child's playthings from this height. "Who?"

"Kinoshita Eiichi."

At the name, Asami paused. He brought his glass up once more and took another sip. The scotch worked its way down his throat and settled warmly in his stomach. He had been wrong about Kinoshita, he realized. And he hated being wrong.

Kirishima shifted, drawing his attention back. The man had more to say, and Asami nodded for him to continue.

"It's Takaba, Asami-sama."

Instantly, the yakuza leader tensed. The idiot kid had just left the suite an hour ago. He'd even left his jacket - likely borrowed - behind. What trouble could he have gotten into this time? "What about him?"

Kirishima hesitated, as if trying to figure out the best way to phrase his words. "He's missing, sir. But that's not the most important thing. There's evidence that he's responsible for the murder. A girl at the front desk said he'd been asking about Kinoshita's room number earlier. And security cameras have Takaba being the last one to head out of the elevators on that floor, and walking toward that suite."

Asami didn't move as Kirishima explained the situation, his expression neutral and unreadable. But it was a survival mechanism he had perfected over the years. Never let them see you panic, never let them see you feel ... for that would be seen as a weakness, and he was not weak.

Yet, his mind was working a hundred miles a second, trying to process the scenario and formulate a solution. Takaba was going to be the death of him. If the troublesome photographer hadn't become so essential to him, he was certain he would've gotten rid of the kid himself.

"Call our contacts at the police station and the media," he finally ordered. "You know what to do."

Kirishima nodded. "I have, sir. But - "

Asami looked inquiringly at his secretary. He didn't have time for indirectness, and the secretary knew that. It was quite uncharacteristic of the man to not get to the heart of the issue quickly.

"But what?" he asked, a little more roughly than he'd intended.

"The security videos have been leaked online, Asami-sama. Some employee must've gotten a hold of it and posted it. Even if we used our people in the police department to make it disappear, they would be hard-pressed by the public not to do anything."

Asami's grip on his snifter tightened. He could read between the lines of his assistant's sentences. All his power and influence couldn't exonerate Takaba from this situation, but he certainly could.

"Shit," he growled with unexpected emotion, and promptly flung his glass at the nearest wall. The container shattered on impact and the scent of alcohol filled the room.

But that didn't do anything to temper Asami's mood. He swore again. They had been fucking earlier that night, which made him a material witness to the boy's whereabouts. But coming forward meant exposing himself ... and risking the whole shadowy empire that he'd spent his entire life building.

End Chapter 2


	4. Chapter 3

_Trompe L'Oeil_  
_Chapter 3_

(***)

Through the fog of sleep, he heard traffic. Or were those trains? Or an airplane perhaps? He couldn't be sure. All he knew was that the sound hurt his head and he didn't like it. On a subconscious level, he realized the futility of it, but he thought about telling it to shut up, to quiet the fuck down so he could continue to sleep. But no matter how hard he willed it, his mouth never moved. He wanted to stay here in this cloudy haze of emptiness, and away from the harsh cacophony of life. It was so much easier here – no sight, no sound, no touch ... nothing.

Takaba woke up slowly, the reality of his surroundings registering to his senses one by one. He saw darkness through heavy-lidded eyes, shadowed outlines with a grainy resolution that gave no indication whatsoever of the chill that danced along his skin. He shivered. His mouth felt dry, as if cotton had been stuffed in there and left a trail of arid bitterness in its wake.

What had happened? Where was he?

Everything was still so muddled. Full awareness was continuing to flitter just out of reach, a slip of silk floating in the wind that he couldn't quite grasp. There had been a party, he recalled, with people in fancy suits and dresses. Asami had been there and ... and the body.

Takaba's breath hitched and his eyes sprang wide open as realization hit. He sat up, only to have the room spin from the sudden action. He pressed his hands down on the cold cement floor to steady himself.

"You're awake." The feminine voice was soft and timid, but even so, it startled him. He looked around, trying to make sense of the dark shapes around him. Large crates and heavy machinery loomed over him like silent sentinels, and it took several seconds before he noticed the petite figure nestled between two large boxes on his left.

"Y-yes." His voice sounded hoarse and scratchy. He swallowed against the dryness, but it barely helped. "Where am I? Who are you?"

Thinking back to how many times he'd been put in these untenable situations by the nature of his job and his intimate association with a crime lord, he would've thought he'd become accustomed to waking up in strange places. But no, it was as disconcerting as always, and he hated it.

"I don't know where we are," came the quiet voice, "but my name is Sato Sachiko." The small body shifted and Takaba made out the shape of a slim woman inching a little closer to him. In the dim light, he couldn't make out her features or her age, but she sounded young and frightened.

"I'm Takaba," he said in hopes of easing her fear. "Takaba Akihito." He rubbed his eyes and tried to clear away the remaining cobwebs in his head. He remembered losing consciousness, but everything beyond that was a mystery, which only meant that he must've stumbled onto something worth hiding. His investigative instincts were definitely piqued.

"It's nice to meet you, Takaba-san," Sachiko responded politely, as if the manners had asserted themselves by force of habit.

"Likewise, Sato-san." He looked over at the woman. He could likely guess why he had ended up in a strange industrial warehouse, but that didn't explain his companion's presence. "I'm sorry if I sounded rude earlier, but you can imagine how confused I am to wake up in a place like this. If you don't mind me asking, why are you here?"

Takaba could make out a slight nod from Sachiko. "I-I don't know," she started in a wavering voice. "The last thing I remember was waiting in the hotel room. Then, everything went black and I woke up here."

The gears started to turn in the younger photographer's mind. "What were you waiting for in the hotel room?"

Sachiko hesitated a moment before answering. "I was ... entertaining."

Takaba didn't have to think hard to deduce the connection to his own situation. "Entertaining?" he repeated. "You were with Kinoshita-san this evening." He had said what she'd implied more for his own benefit than hers.

Again, after a brief pause, Sachiko nodded.

She was likely the 'rendezvous' he'd overhead the two men talking about. She had just been the victim of unfortunate circumstances when Kinoshita had met his end. Still, that didn't explain where he was and why he was here.

As if on cue, the blare of a horn reverberated through the warehouse and gave him an idea as to his whereabouts with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. The docks ... he was somewhere on the pier, and that loud horn had probably sounded regularly throughout the whole time he'd been unconscious. It was a wonder he hadn't been woken up sooner.

Taking a fortifying breath, he pushed himself off the ground to take stock of his surroundings. If there was one thing he'd learned after starting his quasi-relationship with the head of a criminal syndicate, it was that rescues never really worked according to schedule, and that he was better off looking for an escape route than sitting around and waiting. Besides, this was something he'd gotten himself into, not Asami, and he would take responsibility for getting himself out of it. Yet, as he eyed the locked entrance and the small ceiling vents, he absently wondering if Asami was looking for him right now ... or if the man even noticed he was missing.

"There's no way out," Sachiko stated in a defeated tone as she also rose and joined him. "The windows are too small and too high. Same with the vents. The door is looked from the outside, and I have no idea how to pick a lock. I've knocked on it many times, but never hear anything on the other side."

She was a slight woman, Takaba noted. Standing no higher than above his chin, she wore the derivative of what used to be a very elegant cocktail dress, and walked in bare feet that had likely had shoes on them earlier. Yet, despite her rumpled state, she moved with a confidence and surety that contradicted her timid demeanor. "Did you see who locked us in here?" he asked as he pushed on the metal door. Not surprisingly, it didn't budge.

"No." She gently clutched his arm, whether for support or to stop his redundant assessment, he didn't know.

He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Don't worry. We'll find a way out. I'm sure of it." He moved away from the entrance, secretly wanting he believed in his own words.

Sachiko sighed. "I just wish I knew why I was brought here. I didn't do anything wrong."

'As do I,' Takaba mentally echoed her sentiments. He reassessed his environment with the shafts of light that had fought its way through the mottled windows. The warehouse storeroom was a fair size, easily housing several dozen crates of various sizes throughout the expanse. In fact, he'd hazard a guess that his old cozy apartment could've easily fit in here with room to spare. That being said, the ceiling was vaulted, and the windows were too high for him to even consider stacking the crates.

Takaba gritted his teeth in frustration. He had been in worse situations than this, and he had always managed to find a way out. Where were his bright ideas now?

'Where was Asami right now?' a small voice asked inside his head before he could stop it. He hated himself for depending so much on the bastard, and yet, at times like these, he was always fighting pangs of ... of something that made him miss his domineering lover.

'He's not here,' he told himself silently as he walked the perimeter of the chilly storage space, hands skirting over the crates and trying to find an opened one to determine if anything inside was useful.

Sachiko followed his progress unobtrusively from the middle of the room. Just as he was finishing up his first go-around, the door creaked, a loud ominous scratch of metal that caused both occupants to jump.

"Takaba-san ..." Apprehension tainted Sachiko's voice and he moved over to give her shoulder a reaffirming touch before putting himself between her and the door. He may have been put into a helpless situation and needed rescuing himself, but he still did have his masculine pride to consider.

The time it took for the heavy metal door to open was likely no more than a few seconds, but in Takaba's mind, the moment seemed to stretch beyond a hundred heartbeats. And in that time, he was almost certain that everything around him had stopped – all sound, all movement, all life – all waiting with bated breath for the big reveal.

Two suited men filled the entranceway, both imposing, and more importantly, both carrying guns. Instinctively, Takaba tensed. With his current living arrangements, he'd been around the weapons enough to hate and respect them at the same time. His attention partially trained on the Glocks, he tried his best to make out the two owners themselves. The glare from the exterior light behind them made the task difficult, casting their faces into shadow, but he was certain he did not recognize them as any of Asami's or his associate's men.

"You! Come here!" The voice was gruff and guttural, and slightly accented. A gun waved in Sachiko's direction.

Takaba felt her move closer to him, and he stood firm as the man who'd issued the order neared. He barely registered the neatly trimmed goatee and closely shaved head before he was abruptly pistol-whipped aside. His vision blanked and the air left his lungs as he thudded to the unforgiving floor. Seconds passed before the shock wore off and the left side of his jaw screamed bloody murder at the abuse it had taken.

Sachiko called his name from what sounded like a long distance away, but when he regained enough sense to look for her, he saw her being dragged out the door. Forcing his stunned body to move, he half crawled and half ran toward the entrance, his legs and arms moving as if they belonged to four uncoordinated people. But his efforts were all in vain, for he'd taken no more than two steps before the deafening click of the lock sealed him in once again ... alone.

(***)

The firm knock came at an opportune time. Asami looked up from the SynCorp proposals he'd been perusing, and watched Kirishima enter his office with his usual discretion and stand quietly before him, waiting to be acknowledged. He pushed the papers aside. Not that he'd been giving them his full attention anyways. Takaba had pulled off his disappearing act for a whole day now, and even though he'd arrived at Sion as usual and had made a show of going over the papers he'd received last week, a small part of him wondered where the hapless photographer had hied himself off to. He knew Takaba couldn't have perpetrated any type of crime - drunken and disorderly conduct aside - which only meant the tiresome boy had gotten himself into a shitload of trouble once again.

To say his pride wasn't a little bruised would be lying. First, not anticipating Kinoshita and SynCorp's behind-the-curtain dealings, and now, losing track of one of his possessions, he was not in the mood to suffer any incompetence at the moment.

Kirishima did not disappoint. After a quick permissive nod from Asami, the assistant stepped forward and placed two familiar items on the desk. "Our contacts in the police department managed to sneak these out before they were tagged for evidence, Asami-sama."

Neatly manicured hands touched the scratched cell phone and picked up the camera case. Asami was slightly surprised at the weight - or rather, lack thereof. "And the camera?"

Kirishima straightened and pushed his sliding glasses up high on his nose. "They couldn't find it. It's missing, sir."

A muscle tightened along the side of Asami's jaw, but he hid the reaction well with practiced ease. What had happened to cause Takaba to leave his cell phone and camera case behind, but not his camera? A seed of ... of concern began to flower in the pit of his stomach, and he didn't like the distraction it was causing him. Sometimes, he wondered why he indulged himself so much with his errant lover. It would've been so much simpler to just cut Takaba loose. But deep down, he knew that his chances of quitting the kid were as likely as him quitting his smoking habit - nil.

"And the other thing I've asked you to check on?"

Lines creased around Kirishima's mouth. "We haven't found anything yet, but we're still searching."

Asami stared impassively at the articles on his desk, briefly recalling the most recent moments he'd spent with his stubborn, headstrong lover. Since there was no possible way that Takaba had anything to do with Kinoshita, the fact that there was a murderer at large still held true. Finding said person would go a long way in unraveling this undesirable situation.

"Then keep looking," he commanded. "I want the real killer found, and Takaba back."

(***)

His watch display read _1:49 a.m. _when Takaba finally heard some discernible shuffling outside the door. His watch - a Tag Heuer that had been a reluctantly received gift from Asami - had ticked away so slowly the last three lonely hours that he'd been beginning to think that Asami had spent two thousand dollars on a defective product. But the moment he heard the lock click, he was on his feet, thoughts of Asami quickly brushed aside for something far more immediate.

As the door swung open, his jaw throbbed as a reminder of his last encounter with his less-than-amiable captors. This time, he promised himself, he wouldn't be caught unaware again. His muscles tensed at the possibility of another confrontation, a rush of adrenalin flooding through him as if preparing him for battle like the samurai of old. If there was a chance to escape this place and look for Sachiko, he was sure as hell going to take it.

But all his haphazard plans melted away when the door swung open, and a distinct feminine shape stumbled into the room. He quickly moved to steady Sachiko as she regained her footing and caught a brief glimpse of Mr. Goatee Man's form outside the door right before it slammed closed. Takaba ground his teeth together, surprised that he was actually a little angry at not getting the chance to retaliate against the man who'd hit him earlier.

He turned his attention to Sachiko. "Are you alright? What'd they do to you?"

With the meager light that had filtered in, he could make out a slight bruise developing on the side of her face. That, combined with the smudged eye make-up, made Sachiko look like she'd just been through a horrendous ordeal.

But she just nodded and straightened, the subtle strength he'd sensed from her belying her slight frame. "I'm fine. They were asking me questions about the party at the hotel, but I didn't know anything, and they hit me."

The party? Takaba wondered what significant event might've happened there. He certainly hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary. Then again, his attention had been somewhat diverted by a sadistic golden-eyed bastard, but that was beside the point. "What did they ask you?"

Sachiko shrugged. "I'm not sure. It didn't make sense. Something about some photos." She looked at him inquiringly, as if he might be able to clarify.

"Photos?" Takaba's mind turned, thinking back to the shots he'd taken at the reception. He couldn't even recall who or what he'd snapped pictures of other than the usual run-of-the-mill posed images of socialites. Had he somehow managed to capture Kinoshita's murderer on his memory card? And speaking of, where had his camera disappeared to? Theories abounded with renewed ferocity inside his head, but he tried to present a façade of calm in front of his companion. Asami, Mr. I-Have-the-Emotional-Range-of-a-Rock himself, would've been proud. "I wonder what they're after. I don't know anything about whatever photos they're referring to."

Sachiko's posture slumped slightly at the response. Apparently, Takaba wasn't the only one eager to find answers to the whys and wherefores of their imprisonment. But then, Sachiko walked slowly toward the door, casting him an excited glance over her shoulder before she turned to stare at the metal barrier. The hopeful twinkle in her eyes was unmistakable, even in the shadows.

"Sachiko...?" He moved closer to get a better look at what she was up to.

Without a word, she reached down into the low-cut neckline of her dress and pulled a key out from her cleavage. "'Entertaining' isn't the only thing I'm good at." She gave him a bashful smile and handed him the key. "I managed to stumble right into the guy who locked the door behind me when I was hit. Now, what do you say we get out of here and answer our own questions?"

Surprise and a newfound respect warred for dominance on his face. Part of him was slightly taken aback that this unassuming woman had done what he couldn't and found a way out for them. The other part leapt with joy and told him not to reject this opportunity just for the sake of pride. Finally, with a reassuring smile of his own, he reached out and grabbed the key. The edges dug into his palm, and he relished the feel of them for what they represented - freedom.

(***)

"Asami-sama."

Asami paused in mid-motion at Kirishima's voice. He looked over at his secretary and gestured for him to proceed as he put his other arm into his suit jacket and shrugged it into place. After a couple more hours of work - or rather, of going through the motions of running his empire while distractedly trying to solve the case of his missing lover - he'd decided enough was enough, and had planned to head home. For all he knew, Takaba could've snuck back into the penthouse without any of the guards noticing. The chances were slim of that happening but the boy did surprise him sometimes.

"I have someone here to see you, Asami-sama."

A dark, elegant eyebrow rose. "It's after three in the morning, Kirishima. Reschedule the meeting for tomorrow night." Normally, the man knew better than to disrupt his usually well-organized schedule.

"I would, sir, but you'll want to take this meeting." The incandescent light from the ceiling fixture danced off Kirishima's glasses and brought attention to his serious expression. "It has to do with Kinoshita-san, and possibly, Takaba."

Asami turned to face his secretary fully, his usual expressionless mask easily concealing the intrigue he felt.

"You told us to look for the murderer, and one of our contacts in another club uncovered someone who might lead us in the right direction."

"Who?"

"Nakamura Aiko."

The name didn't sound familiar at all to Asami, and he waited for Kirishima to continue.

"She's Kinoshita's lover. Apparently, she spent the night with him in his hotel room yesterday, right before he was killed. And she's waiting outside your office right now."

End Chapter 3


End file.
